


A Soul is a Heavy Burden

by century_berry



Series: The Weight of a Soul [4]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Consequences, Direct Sequel to With a Little Soul That Could, Emotional Overload, Enemies to Lovers, Errorink - Relationship, Errortale Sans (Undertale), Errortale Sans/Inktale Sans (Undertale), Grieving, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Ink has a soul now, Inktale Sans (Undertale), It's been slow cooking before the events of this fic, Kinda, M/M, Redemption, Slow Burn, frenemies to lovers, or shall I say
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28497873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/century_berry/pseuds/century_berry
Summary: The first thing that Ink did after the soul - his soul - returned into his chest was to throw up.Having a soul isn’t all it cracked up to be. Especially when the entire Multiverse is upset with him. Everyone except Error, who’s being oddly helpful for an ex-nemesis.
Relationships: Sans/Sans (Undertale)
Series: The Weight of a Soul [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2076354
Comments: 30
Kudos: 70





	1. Cold, Unfeeling Stars

Ink would never forget the night he was gifted his very own soul.

It had been something he had yearned for ever since he realized he didn’t have one. As a being who thrives in all creation, Ink quickly came to realize that he had an emptiness in him that others didn’t. Where he is hollow and blank, others have a soul. While others thrived in their own existences, Ink clung on desperately onto the passion and creativity of others. The artificial emotions he gathered and bottled only punctuated that.

He’s there, he’s in sight, but he’s constantly in orbit compared to everyone else.

Of course, Ink also knew that what he longed for is completely out of his reach. He couldn’t simply steal a soul from someone and take it as his own. He’s already tried that, and it failed miserably.

And so, Ink focused on maintaining the relationship he had with the Creators. He helps AUs come into existence while their colors help him to exist in turn. Ink was content and, when consuming the right paints, pleased with their arrangement.

Well.

That was until Creators began to leave. More and more AUs were left unfinished. More and more AUs were erased and destroyed, not by Error, but by the Creators themselves. The more it happened, the more adrift Ink was. It became harder and harder to gather paint. It got to the point that he began hoarding certain colors and devoting most of his time convincing those who remained to continue to create. He stretched himself thin, trying to convince them to stay, please, _please stay, don’t leave, don’t –_

_Don’t leave me alone again._

And yet, they continued to trickle away, deaf to his desperation.

But that’s fine. Ink had a plan to bring everyone back. He’s helped in the creation in so many interesting AUs, sure, but he’s willing to make a mess for the sake of inspiration. After all, the bigger the fire, the greater the crowd.

Ink’s in orbit. He’s never truly touched the ground. Any emotion felt never truly stuck with him. They never stay – that’s one of the many differences between the emotions from his paints and the ones that come from the soul. Feelings don’t stay forever. Memories don’t either.

In any other time, this would have been an impediment, but when planning to upend the entire Multiverse for the sake of the X Event? Very useful. Ink isn’t a big fan of going paintless, but small sacrifices were necessary for the sake of the game.

If the regained interests of the Creators required him to fling himself _away_ from orbit and become the furthest, coldest star, then he would do it.

But then, Ink felt the presence of his soul. It was real and it was _there_ in the Doodlesphere _._ He promptly forgot and abandoned everything he had painstakingly planned with XGaster to chase after it. It wasn’t there. And no matter how far and wide he searched, he couldn’t find anything.

After that, Ink hid away and…gave up. The Multiverse began to completely fall apart in his absence, but he didn’t care. He barely touched his paints. How could he when he felt the inklings of the actual thing? An existence without depending on the whims and inspirations of others, Ink almost had that.

Ink was a distant star the moment his soul resurfaced. With barely any paint on his tongue, he had to resort to syphoning away the paint of the AU he had been hiding in to continue the chase. Most of the events were a blur after that. Ink tore the Multiverse apart and had a hand in putting it back together again before he got what he wanted. He got his soul.

The first thing Ink did after the soul – his soul – returned into his chest was to throw up.

It’s not how he imagined it to be. Ink had expected freedom. He had expected to be cut away from his orbit and be free to shoot for the next, grand adventure without any strings attached.

No one told him that souls _burned_. That they pulled like gravity. Ink wasn’t flying, he was falling. So Ink threw up. He threw up all the paint in his system because it’s _too much, too much_ and maybe it’ll get better when it’s all out.

It doesn’t get better.

* * *

Hours after gaining back his soul, Ink is still sobbing at the summit of Mt. Ebott. Dirt cakes his phalanges and the ground surrounding him is completely torn apart. Ink had desperately clawed at the ground when Bl – when the _body_ slipped through Ink’s grip and sunk into the rest of the mountain. And yet, no matter how much he dug, he couldn’t find it. He couldn’t –

Ink drew heaves and curls into himself miserably. He scratches at his ribs and wonders why he feels so much loss despite all the emotions his chest is carrying. Why isn’t he _bursting?_ Overflowing? Surely, his tears aren’t as comparable to the ocean behind his ribs.

Ink lets out a sob and reaches for the soul in his chest. He needs it out. He needs it _gone_.

Before Ink can do the deed, strings wrap around his body and renders him completely immobile. He falls onto his face.

“Don’t you d-d- **dare**.”

Ink is too exhausted to struggle in his bindings. He doesn’t even make the effort to look at Error, though Ink can hear the other’s anger as well as the remnants of a terrible crash in his voice. Guilt and shame weigh down on Ink when he realizes what he had almost done. He almost ripped apart Bl – his soul in a moment of weakness. The very thing he had endangered the Multiverse for.

“It’s a lot for you right now. I know.” To Ink’s faint surprise, Error’s voice gentles into something more empathetic. “But all of this is what you have to bear from now on. This is what comes with having a soul. Don’t go shattering it at the first sign of pain. Blank didn’t die to have you throw it all away.”

Ink flinches and Error goes silent. Then, with a frustrated snarl, he storms off. Somehow, Ink manages to roll onto his back. Through a watery sight, he glares enviously at the cold, distant stars that twinkles back. 


	2. These Patient Hands

It’s sunrise when Error comes back for Ink. By then, Ink had stopped crying. Tears can take a long time to run out, Ink found. He’s never cried this much before. Blue paint could only last so long before Ink bounced back to his yellows and greens. But now, Ink doesn’t feel like he can bounce back from this.

Error returns looking as tired and defeated as Ink.

“Let’s go,” he tells him, picking him up, “we can’t stay here forever.”

Error takes them away from _Aftertale_ and its Mt. Ebott. Ink isn’t too surprised to see that the other brings him to the Star Council. There’s a trial to finish, after all. The entire process that Ink sits through is thorough and fair, which surprises Ink. He thought that they’d simply slap on an eternal sentence before throwing him into a prison cell and throwing away the key. Every member of the Star Council has a role to play.

_We don’t need you anymore,_ all of them seem to say, _this Multiverse can function very well without you. We made sure of that._

Ink stands in front of the council. He and Dream make eye contact for a brief moment before both of them look away. Instead, he focuses on the rest of the members. Ink waits for their decision.

* * *

The Star Council, after much discussion and consideration, decides to tie Ink to a single location where he would serve an indefinite sentence for his crimes. Broomy is confiscated from him and he’s sent away to his prison. A lonely prison with a single jailer: Error.

_Of course_ it’s Error. He’s the expected choice.

The decision should strike him cold, Ink thinks, but it doesn’t. Instead, it is a single candle shining in the darkness. It is a comfort to know that Error will be there with him. Error, his greatest enemy, is also his only constant. Ink hates himself for feeling relieved. This is more than he deserves.

Ink’s prison is another familiarity: Home and the Ruins where everything began after Ink had torn everything apart. The sight of it makes the soul in Ink’s chest _ache_. Every inch of this prison is practically saturated with Blank’s memories. It’s only been a few hours since Ink ripped them away from this happiness. He wishes he didn’t. Maybe if he hadn’t, Blank’s last moments would have been gentler than the meager comfort he barely managed to offer them. Every inch of the house is a painful reminder of his selfishness and the consequences that followed after that.

Not that it matters. In the first opportunity that he gets, Ink locks himself into the closest guest room and buries himself under bedsheets. It does nothing to take away his grief, but it helps him hide away from all the reminders in this house of memories. He stays there for what seems like days. He doesn’t eat. He doesn’t drink. He simply exists.

Ink can almost pretend that he’s back in the sky, back in orbit. But he knows with every inch of himself that he will never be that ever again. Not with this burden weighing heavy in his chest.

* * *

Error, in his typical, impatient fashion, kicks down Ink’s door and drags him out of his bed.

“No more moping around,” Error declares, which is completely and utterly unfair coming from a AntiVoid recluse like him. Ink struggles in vain to hold onto the bedsheets as the other manhandles him out of the room and into the hallway.

Ink flinches at the light as he’s dragged away from the darkness of his room. It stings. Even when his eyes become used to the light, he shies away from the warmth and comfort around him. He knows very well that this place and its kindness was created for someone who is long gone. Error forces him onto the chair next to the fireplace. There is a bookshelf filled with textbooks and storybooks for children. Ink’s eyes drop to his lap.

Error sees this and scoffs. It sounds grated and forced under all the glitchiness. “You hate how this house looks, Ink? Then change it.” Ink tilts his head at the suggestion. “You still have brushes, squid, so _use them_.”

“Only small ones,” Ink tells him quietly, thinking of Broomy. Completely reconstructing a house requires wider brushstrokes than what his handheld brushes can achieve. Even if this is possible, it takes more time and effort. Of course, this is all in the Star Council’s design. “It will take some time.”

“What do you know?” Error says wryly. “You have a lot of that.”

* * *

Core visits Ink sometimes. Even when he still holed himself in his bedroom, they dropped by to update him on the going ons of the Multiverse. There is no judgement or accusation during their interactions.

“Why?” Ink asks them one day. “Why are you being…so nice to me?”

Core stares at him with their Void eyes. “Nice,” they repeat with a curious lilt in their voice, “it’s interesting that you see my actions that way, Ink. ‘Nice’ depends on the situation, don’t you think? I am only doing what I feel is necessary for the Multiverse just as Blank did what they felt was necessary for the Multiverse.”

Ink tries not to shudder as Core’s empty gaze starts to feel heavy and suffocating.

“It is my greatest hope that you too will do what is necessary for the Multiverse once you regain your bearings, Ink.”

* * *

It becomes a pattern.

Ink would sleep, wake up, eat, paint, and repeat the cycle over again. Sometimes, Error would be there, watching over him as he restructured each room, bit by bit. He’d change the wallpaper colors on the hallway or rearrange the order of the rooms. It’s a project that consumed most of his day and even most of his nights.

Creativity returns to Ink like an old friend. The project is nothing as grand as aiding the birth of an AU, but it reignites his passion for creation and imagination. He’s stuck and without Broomy, but he can still _make something._

It’s the same as before, and yet it’s also different.

Ink’s creativity isn’t as spontaneous as it was way back when. There are so many factors to consider. Error sharing the space with him is one of those many factors. The glitch despised clutter and mess within a closed space, so Ink takes more care in tidying up after himself and his creations. No need to have Error accidently stumble over one of Ink’s projects in his half-blindness. It’s not as if the glitch remembers his glasses every time he enters the house.

He tries to make things that Error might like too: bean bags, balls of yarn, a hammock. Error seemed to like the last one when he found it at the yard.

Still, even when some of his creations are met with approval, Ink takes great care not to make any changes that would surprise and cause his duty-bound roommate to crash. Surprises, it turned out, are like touches to Error. 

“I’m sorry,” Ink had apologized the first time he made Error crash. Aside from draping a blanket over the glitch’s shoulders, Ink kept his hands to himself. _Error doesn’t like touch_ , he reminded himself over and over again just in case he forgot. Nowadays, Ink seldom forgot. His soul wouldn’t let him when it came with his only consistent companion in his prison.

The pure shock that crossed Error’s face the first time Ink apologized was a sight to behold.

(Even as Ink’s fingers yearned for a pencil and a sketchbook to immortalize this moment, his soul never let him forget that Error’s surprise was because he’s never expected Ink to genuinely apologize.)

Ink is grounded. His soul chains him from causing mischief and creating chaos at a whim. He’s come to terms with that after the emotions welling in his chest every day became more bearable and easier to ignore.

(Ink is trying to be good. He’s _trying._ )

* * *

He leaves Blank’s room untouched.

* * *

For once, it isn’t Core who visits, but Miracle. He comes sweeping into the house in a flurry of feathers, surprising Ink in the middle of repainting a wall. He has none of the fire and anger that the artist expected. Instead, he looks tired and defeated.

“I’m here for Blank,” he tells Ink curtly. The air grows heavy and awkward at the deity’s announcement. Ink tries not to rub at his chest as his mind begins to fumble for a correct response. _Blank isn’t here,_ sounds a bit too cheeky and inappropriate for the situation. _Taking this soul won’t bring them back,_ is another option, but…it’s too close to the truth for Ink to bear.

_Blank is dead,_ sounds like the best answer. It’s clear and to the point. But the sentence catches at Ink’s false throat and makes his soul squeeze.

“I meant,” Miracle’s gruff tone softens, probably taking pity on Ink and his floundering, “that I’m here _because of_ Blank. I wanted to – I…the kid would’ve wanted me to try with you. And Life said I needed the closure anyway. So…” he trails off awkwardly.

This time, it’s Ink who continues the conversation.

“It really does sound like Blank to want things like that.” He’s proud when he doesn’t double over at the familiar pang that comes with speaking their name. “I don’t know if I’m worth trying for, but I’m open to a chat. It gets a bit lonely here when Error isn’t around.”

Miracle’s wings ruffle in response, revealing the uneasiness that his face would not. Whether it’s because of Ink mentioning Error or Ink himself, Ink would never know. He doesn’t bother to ask.

“…I got nothing,” the deity finally admits after a bit of struggling with some small talk. “I’m shit at conversations with strangers and I’m not really interested in learning about you. Sorry.”

Ink shrugs, not at all offended by Miracle’s blunt statement. The fact that the deity visited with the intention of trying had been a pleasant surprise of itself. And he hasn’t punched or yelled at Ink yet. He counts that as a win. “That’s okay. You tried.” An idea pops into the artist’s mind and it comes out before he could stop himself. “Do you want to see some of Blank’s things?”

Miracle does, in fact, want to see Blank’s things. For the first time ever since he entered Ink’s prison, the deity’s eyelight is suddenly alight with something other than defeat. That same light turns into something raw and painful after Ink leads him over to Blank’s room.

Blank’s hand-drawn pictures are still there. Miracle takes one of them off the wall. He takes care not to rip or winkle it as he stares at the image of a Geno with a tiny Frisk sitting on his shoulders.

Ink hadn’t thought much of it the first time he saw it, but now he feels as if it’s an important piece of something he’ll never understand.

No one told Ink the feelings poured into other things like spilled paint. He thought that souls were supposed to keep them _in_.

“This place is a mess. Why didn’t you clean it?”

Ink starts at Miracle’s statement. It’s accusing in a way that he’d expected Miracle to sound when he spoke.

“I couldn’t do it,” Ink confesses. He tries to say more, but shame drowns him and renders him mute. It takes a few tries before he manages to make a sound. His voice cracks as he takes a step back as if the distance would make the breathing easier. “I couldn’t risk erasing them. It’s a mess, but that’s how they left it before they – I couldn’t do it.”

Ink doesn’t know what’s worse: the fact that his weakness made him neglect such a precious memory or the look Miracle is giving him. Complete empathy and understanding.

(He doesn’t deserve it.)

* * *

“What were they like? Before you were separated?” Ink asks Error later when he returns. Miracle was long gone by then. At the other’s confused expression, he clarifies. “Blank.”

Ink nearly takes the question back at Error’s expression. Sometimes, it’s easy to forget that he’s still hurting. It will take a long while before any of them can mention Blank’s name without tears following.

To Ink’s surprise, Error doesn’t punch him for the question.

“A good kid,” Error answers with a bittersweet twist of his expression. “A good kid.”

* * *

It starts with a stray thought: _This garden is so bare and boring._

There is only so much rearranging and repainting that Ink could do. After expanding the hallway and adding a few more rooms, he finally decided that he’s finished with working on the house. Instead, he turns to the area outside of the front door. It’s just as barren and sad as ever.

Ink can’t create living things as easily without Broomy. Furniture is one thing, but life? No, it needs more magic than a handful of discount brushes. So, instead of flowers, Ink creates _seeds._ They’re slower, but he has all the time in the world.

Ink starts with flowers at first. Dahlias. Poppies. Marigolds. Petunias. Lilies. They grow and make everything so much more colorful. Ink treats them all tenderly, laboring to keep them healthy and vibrant as long as possible. Then, he begins to dabble with plants that are more edible.

After an army’s worth of shriveled plants, Ink comes out of the experience with a thriving tomato plant. His hands are dirty, but there’s a thrum of achievement under his bones. This is his. He created this.

His soul cradles the feeling of satisfaction and keeps it there.

* * *

The garden is in shambles and all the greens are ruined. Ink coughs from his position on the ground as the tomato closest to him is ruthlessly crushed under a foot. When he looks up, Killers face leers down back at him. Despite his Cheshire grin, Ink can see that Killer is anything but _happy._ “Look at you, enjoying life in such a cozy home without a single worry in the Multiverse.”

When Killer lifts him up by the shirt and brandishes his knife to his face, there is no finesse in his movements. He’s shaking, causing the blade to slice into his cheekbone. Killer is being careless. He’s not usually careless. Ink doesn’t bleed blood. Instead, a steady stream of his namesake streams down his face, mimicking the twin, dark streams trailing down Killer’s face. His target-shaped soul warps and gives off an ominous, red glow.

“Makes me want to _rip it apart_ ,” Killer finishes his sentence with a snarl. The blade digs deeper and more ink spills from the wound. “I want you as miserable as we are. I’m a bit rusty, but I’m pretty sure that I can still make you the most miserable person in the Multiverse. With a soul, you’re just as vulnerable to emotions as the rest of us, right?”

Ink’s soul is pounding. It feels as if it’s trying to fly away and take him with it.

The soul makes itself known, drawing Killer’s attention. For a brief moment, his soul flickers and his maniacal expression shifts into something more heartbreaking and vulnerable. Ink doesn’t know why, but seeing it hurt more than the cuts and bruises.

But then, Killer’s expression turns wrathful. His soul _burns_ and shifts into the shape of the traditional monster soul, mirroring Ink’s. “That soul doesn’t belong to you,” he says, and Ink wholeheartedly agrees. But then, Killer _turns the blade towards Ink’s soul._

What –

What is he doing?

Killer looks satisfied when he sees Ink’s expression. It must be the raw terror that strikes Ink cold that he sees, but Killer doesn’t understand why Ink is so scared and he’s too far gone in his grief to even care. Separating the soul from Ink’s body would spell its shattering, taking down the entire Multiverse with it.

_Blank’s death would have been for nothing if that happens._

Almost instinctively, Ink grabs ahold of a power inside himself that he’d left untouched. It’s a terrifying and great thing that responds eagerly. Killer doesn’t notice. It’s the perfect moment to strike. Ink knows that he can easily take away every layer and pigment that is Killer. But then, Ink remembers how much Blank adored Killer.

…He can’t do it. Ink lets his power flicker and die at his fingertips. He goes limp, helpless to whatever Killer plans to do next.

“I’m going to carve it out of your pathetic excuse of a –

Killer is suddenly yanked away from Ink with a yelp, causing the artist to drop onto the ground. Ink relaxes when he sees Error’s strings wrapped around the skeleton and his weapon. The Destroyer himself comes into view not too long after.

“Error,” Ink sighs in relief. Error’s stance becomes less rigid at the sound of his name. “You okay?” Ink nods. “Good.”

“You two really _do_ deserve each other,” Killer spits. “Should’ve known that it’d be like that the moment you stood up for him, Error. Murderers, both of you. Blank died twice over because of you two.”

Ink stiffens and looks at Error worriedly. _Ink_ might have been able to restrain himself from erasing Killer, but Error’s natural instinct was to destroy. Error could slice Killer’s code into ribbons with a twitch of his fingers. Ink holds his breath and waits for it to happen.

“I’ll tell Nightmare to pick you up,” Error informs him instead and Ink marvels at his restraint. He helps Ink up to his feet and looks him over. Error’s face twists upon seeing the wounds. “C’mon,” he grunts, “let’s get these washed up and treated.”

* * *

Error’s fingertips feel like static as he treats Ink’s wounds. They dance over the cuts with feather-light touches, cleaning and wrapping them with a steadiness neither of them feel. Ink tries not to lean into his touches. He tries not to tremble. Any unexpected movement feels as if it would break whatever spell that’s cast over them.

The bathroom had been an indulgence when Ink added it into the setup of the house. But now, he’s grateful for the cool porcelain and the sound of running water. The bathwater he’s in is stained with black ink from where he bled. The floor leading to the bathroom must be a mess by now.

What a mess.

“You idiot,” Error growls under his breath and Ink finds himself nodding in agreement. Yes, he’s an idiot. Yes, he’s a mess. He wonders if this is where Error would decide that he’s more trouble than he’s worth. “Why didn’t you fight back? Killer almost killed you, Ink. You should’ve done something.”

“If I did, he’d be wiped from existence. I can do that easily.”

And that’s the most frightening thing. He could’ve sucked away all those colors and left behind only memories with only a touch. He doesn’t need Broomy to leave. He can do that on his own by sucking away the colors like he had with all those AUs. Ink tries not to cower at the thought of Error’s anger at his unintentional folly.

But Error doesn’t get angry. “I know,” he says, surprising Ink. “That’s why I’m asking you why you sat back and let him get so close to shattering your soul. Did you want to give up your life that badly?”

“Of course not!” Offended, Ink glares at Error. “Blank sacrificed too much for me to take the easy way out. And it’s not just my life, it’s the Multiverse too! But still…” he sags “I couldn’t do it. Not to someone who Blank cared for so much.”

“…Why didn’t you just erase the dagger then?”

The simplicity of the solution completely floors Ink.

Error scoffs at his dumbfounded expression, “Idiot,” he says again, but this time it’s bordering to something more fond than frustrated. “How did you even make it this far without me?”

Ink sinks deeper into the bathwater.

* * *

Horror and Dust both come to pick Killer up. Ink sees that the pair had gathered up the recoverable tomatoes and placed them all in a basket. The generous act is a pleasant surprise to the battered artist.

“Thank you.”

“Food should never be wasted,” Horror states shortly. _We didn’t do this for you,_ Ink hears loud and clear. He doesn’t mind their coldness. Instead, he thoughtfully regards the produce in the basket with an idea forming in his head.

* * *

Ink makes homemade pasta sauce for the first time. He’s seen it done before, so he should be able to do it easily, right?

Wrong.

“I have no idea why you thought this was going to be a good idea.”

Error, poor Error, had been pulled into Ink’s spontaneous project. He’s currently covered in tomato splatter from head-to-toe thanks to the artist’s enthusiastic bashing. Ink, equally as messy, pouts at his failure.

“But I did it the way the Undynes taught their Papyrus and human to do it.” He gives one of his tomato-covered fingers a lick and grimaces. “It doesn’t even taste right.”

Error snorts. “Undyne can’t cook for shit. She’s a literal fire hazard whenever she walks into the kitchen. She even burned her own house down for Void’s sake. I can’t believe you thought copying how she cooked was a good idea, squid.”

Ink threw his hands up to complain but a loud splat interrupts him. When he realizes that he’d accidentally splattered even more crushed tomatoes onto Error’s face, he grins nervously. “Oops?”

“Why you –

Error throws a handful right back at Ink in retaliation. They make a game of it. The familiar chasing and fighting ignites something in Ink’s soul. It swoops and swells until he releases the feeling out to the open.

He laughs.

Ink doesn’t notice when Error stops and stares. He’s too caught up in the simple joy of the moment.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

It’s rare whenever Error initiates contact. That’s why Ink is still and pliant as the glitch tugs him along to some unknown location. “Error, where are you taking me?” He blinks when they stop in front of a familiar area. He’s sure that the shapes of his own eyelights are highlighting his obvious confusion. “The secret lab? But that’s the exit.”

“Was. Was the exit. I shifted the code around. This place is rightfully its own AU, didn’t you know?”

No, Ink didn’t know. He barely knows anything when he comes to what happens outside his home. He bites back any questions. Core may be vague whenever they update Ink about the world outside, but that’s more than he deserves to know. Error tugs him forward again and through the now unlocked door. Despite himself, Ink feels a spark of curiosity. Error mentioned that he shifted the code around, so that means whatever is beyond this door is something new.

Ink’s interest immediately turns into shock when he sees the familiar, soft yellows of his Doodlesphere.

“Error…” he swallows down the tiny flutter of joy “…you’re not supposed to do this. I’m not allowed to even _be_ here.”

“I know.” Error goes further ahead into the Doodlesphere. Ink tampers down the instinctive urge to drive the Destroyer out of this place. There is no need to protect these AUs. That’s not his duty anymore. “But the Multiverse is failing. Can’t you feel it?”

Ink can _see_ it. Aside from the main, established AUs, the rest are fragile. Some are barely even hanging by a thread. Inspiration and creativity are at an all-time low. These are AUs Ink knows like the back of his hand. To see them at this state makes his soul sting. Easy fixes. Easy amendments. If only he could just –

No.

That’s not his duty anymore.

“They need a Creator, Ink. They need _you._ ”

Error believes that. He truly believes that. Why he has so much faith in him, Ink would never understand. Hadn’t he already failed? He neglected the Multiverse before, who’s to say he wouldn’t again? It’s not as if his very existence depends on it anymore. What’s holding him back from ruining it all again?

Ink wants to reject it. To turn away from the Doodlesphere and return to his garden and his paintings. But his feet are rooted to this very spot. He knows that some hunger he’d been ignoring all this time is finally sated and he’d never be satisfied for anything less ever again. Ink wants to hate Error for doing that, he really does.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be here with you every step of the way.” _To keep you in check. To make sure you don’t mess up again._

Instead of feeling threatened, Ink feels relief at the unspoken reminder. It pushes him to make the decision his soul already made.

“All right.”

* * *

Ink creates. He feels the familiar rush of his power running through his marrow as he helps along the AUs. He’s glad that his first time using it in a long while isn’t destruction but creation.

* * *

The household falls into a rhythm. Ink and Error become its dancers. They weave around each other in both leisure and work. Before, they would fight for the right to create, preserve, neglect, and destroy. Now, they make concessions. They help each other or step aside. Sometimes, there would be a hiccup in the beat whenever a visitor comes to take some of Ink’s time, Core and Miracle being the most frequent.

It’s nice. It’s comfortable.

_I can spend the rest of my life like this,_ Ink catches himself thinking one morning while watching Error trying to flip a pancake. He’s usually a creature of spontaneity and fleeting interests. He can still remember a time when a life like this would bore him to death. But now, the thought sits warm and content in his mind like a cat lounging in sunlight. It doesn’t make any sense! A life in a house with Error forever shouldn’t feel like a grand adventure. Any sort of forever with Error shouldn’t feel so exciting. It’s almost as if he’s –

Oh.

Ink blinks before his cheekbones are suddenly washed in a rainbow of colors.

_Oh._


End file.
